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Yesterday was a mixed bag.  As it was my birthday I adopted the ‘doing nothing because it’s my birthday’ stance and because of this, the day was much like any other.  I awoke with the usual birthday feelings- ‘bollocks that’s another rung on the ladder to thirty, but still, at least there’ll be cake.’

As I’ve already babbled on about, the garden is well on its way to completion and the overall effect is stunning- I’ve started viewing the pond as a fabulous water feature and stopped thinking of it as a failed hole, this has been very liberating, and although still not zen-like, I’m happy and content.
The break neck speed at which the garden is being tackled is mesmerising, by the time I’d decorated my wellies the beds were already down and edged.  Mother in law charged me with the very important job of counting seeds into piles, which Husband couldn’t be trusted with.  Maybe they’ll make a gardener of me yet?
Not known for my dedication to a task I was bored quickly and decided it best to get to the Post Office to send the Blue Peter letter.
This is where the day turned to shit.  One thing guaranteed to piss me off on a sunny afternoon is old biddies tutting.  I’m sure that when a woman hits her late sixties she’s whisked away to a weekend retreat, probably in the Lake District, where she’s taught the lost arts of tutting, sighing and causing injury with a wheeled shopping basket.  I’ve no real proof of what these women keep in these gaudy looking contraptions but I imagine it to be pilfered sugar sachets, tenna lady and the souls of under 30s they’ve tutted to death.
The pissy knickers brigade was out in force, the queue at the Post Office smelled of urine, biscuits and parma violets.  I don’t think it was pension day so they were probably posting letters to long lost relations who had the good sense to emigrate or writing to Terry Wogan about sexy adverts and the news.  Either way, they were all in the Post Office as I popped in to post Husband’s pictures to Blue Peter.
I should point out at that this is the first time I’ve ever written to the show; I always hated it as a child and felt that the extra 30 minutes of learning they tried to disguise as entertainment at the end of the school day was both unfair and transparent.  They also gave us Anthea fucking Turner.  Because I’ve never written to them before and am unsure of protocol, I make the error of deciding to send the letter by recorded delivery.
By the time I reached the front of the queue, I had a tidy coven of biddies filing behind me tutting and clucking about the price of stamps and kidney stones.
It wasn’t until I pulled out a twenty with a massive black cock drawn onto it that I realised my mistake. Never, ever leave the house without checking for Acme traps.
Pol Pot the postal worker loudly informed me that:

The Currency and Bank Notes Act 1928 says If any person prints, or stamps, or by any means impresses, on any bank note any words, letters or figures, he shall, in respect of each offence, be liable on summary conviction to a penalty not exceeding one pound.
The penalty was changed to 25 pounds in 1977 (Criminal Law Act, s.31) and to 200 pounds in 1982 (Criminal Justice Act, s.46).

Who died and made her the fucking money police?

She shouted loudly about youngsters who ‘watch too much ‘Dirty Sancho’ (Sanchez who I like) and ‘Jackos’ (Jackass, who I don’t) and think it’s funny to play practical jokes.’


It took me fifteen minutes of back peddling, denial and a £20 charitable donation to the RNLI to calm the situation.
By this is time, the tutting brigade were in fine fettle clicking their tongues like a visiting African Tribe.  My patience had melted away and there, in amongst the stationary and wrapping paper, stood a seriously mortified Crap Wife.  (Of course I accept no responsibility for the failure of this prank and fully blame the person who suggested cock-money via facebook.)
I don’t know if the defaced money had been an act of deliberate sabotage on Husband’s part, there is a chance that he hadn’t looked at the notes before putting them in my purse- either way, I have had a taste of what it feels like to be on the receiving end of one of these pranks.  I would love to say that this has encouraged me to drop my campaign of terror, but it hasn’t.  As soon as his mother goes home, he’s dead.
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